The Keep

Seated inconspicuously in the back of the inn in Ratchet, Zijil sipped his arcane water casually. Narrow eyes rolling over the comers and goers, he pondered his new assignment.

His new employer recruited him from the Revantusk tribe. Unassuming, calculating and without emotion, the troll was seen as perfect for the tasks needed. Zijil agreed, and the payment was just right.

Lowering his flask of water, Zijil rubbed his chin in thought, figuring it was time. He rose from his seat and casually walked out the door, brushing his sleeves off as he inspected the area. It was safe, well, as safe as he could imagine.

Walking behind a building he stood casually in the shadows, the form of a quivering succubus holding a note out to him. Zijil never could understand the behaviour of that strange demon, always appearing nervous and afraid, and obviously not afraid of him. She could, he was sure, make short work of him, or if she desired, make his final time long and painful. He'd figure it out someday.

Taking the note he tore it open quickly and silently with a sharp nail, reading the letter inside before combusting it in his hands and letting the ashes drop to the earthen soil. He brushes the ashes from his gloves.

Fixing his tie, Zijil nodded to the demon and turned about, walking back into the busy streets of Ratchet, disappearing in the crowds.